


There's This Guy Who Works at the Library

by Orson_Bennett



Category: Gay Librarian
Genre: Academic, First Time, Library Flirtation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orson_Bennett/pseuds/Orson_Bennett
Summary: Frank finds himself in the last place he wants to be. But then something pleasantly awkward occurs.
Relationships: Frank Richardson/Guy Bennett
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asher_Ephraim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_Ephraim/gifts).



This isn't about me, I promise. I'm not really to the type--neither academically, nor sexually. That at least used to be true (the second part; I'm still not "academic" by any loose stretch of the word). But I found myself at the library a whole lot. A real, whole lot. Not studying grammar, obviously, otherwise I could have phrased that better. But yes, I had stacks of books, stacks of empty notebooks, my laptop, and a big frickin' distraction. I blame "whoever" assigned me the workspace, but the upshot was I always (and I mean always, every time, every Damn time) found myself looking up from my stupid books at least every few minutes. He'd wheel a cart forward, he'd wheel it back, and the fucker was always whistling.

I shouldn't have called him that. I'm just... out of sorts at the moment. But I swear he was always pushing that cart, and whistling, and occasionally nodding in my direction and smiling with that cryptic smile of his. Starting when I arrived that first night, with no books, no desk, and no plan. The desk I got was just around the edge of a corner, so I had some privacy of sorts. Except for him and his cart and his smile. There weren't more than a couple of other study desks in this section, but it was en route to whatever mountain of "periodicals" they had tucked away that were only available on request. And he was the guy who fetched them for the asker.

Now, before this seminar, I was _never_ in the library. (And I mean that.) So me being here was not statistically credible, and me ending up in this weird corner of the library, even less so. I don't yet know his back-story, but considering what an unlikely guy he was, it renders the following story exponentially anomalous. And this story isn't about me. It's about Guy--the "library guy".

* * *

"Excuse me young man", were his first words to me. Looking him up and down I don't think he could have been more than a year or two older than me. I suppose I was somewhat grateful for the acknowledgment, though, as anyone's first time in a big college library is a real bitch. For most people. I've occasionally met book types at parties who lose the ability to shut up about the library after a couple of drinks. They somehow cropped up at every party I ever went to, because it was that kind of school. (A kind of school I mostly got into because my uncle was a student years ago and he always made sure to donate to his alma mater whenever they asked it of him.)

But anyway, there I was, looking lost as hell and nervously tapping my fingers along my laptop cover that I was gripping a little too hard in my left hand. Wandering aimlessly with my phone in the other hand, I really didn't know where to begin, and after some minutes I heard his soft cough.

"Excuse me young man," he began, "Can I assist you with something?"

That was also the first time I saw his cryptic smile. It conveyed an array of sentiments: civility, arrogance, concern, and a touch of 'obliging'. I explained my situation as nonchalantly as possible. (If you're really interested in the paper I had to write, I'm going to have to disappoint you; let's just say I'm no longer dabbling in philosophy.) He nodded, told me to wait a moment, and grabbed a nearby cart before disappearing.

Now, I admit I was looking at my phone and just wandering around, but I swear that there were no carts at all nearby when we began talking. Further experience in the library confirmed a suspicion I was quick to develop: they just appear when he needs them, no matter where they might have otherwise been hiding. Contemplating our brief exchange, I continued my awkward lingering, looking out of place, until he emerged from the opposite side of the big room than the one he'd left through. "Whatever", I thought, "this guy's trying to help, and I want to do as little as possible for this thing."

Once he'd wheeled up to me, his previously empty cart now pretty filled up with books and newspapers and magazines, he laid his hand on my shoulder to turn me around and started talking. I don't remember exactly what he went on about. It may have been about the library, maybe my project, maybe his mom's health problems. It could have been anything. You see, my mind went fuzzy once his hand had touched my shoulder, and I couldn't figure out why. Part of me felt it an affront, a little too familiar. Another part shrugged it off, metaphorically so to speak. And a small part of me felt, in some small way, something. Something I couldn't quite figure out during the brief minutes it took him usher me from a useless part of the library to that little desk around the corner I explained.

I took a seat while he unloaded his cart. (And let me emphasize again here: it was _his_ cart, like all the carts I ever saw in that library.) Making some discreet glances in his direction, I could guess the following: mid-20s, moustache, deep-set eyes, sharp-angled glasses, upward-coifed hair, frickin' sweater vest, and a bowtie. Who was this joker?

"By the way, my name's Guy", he stated just then, as if he read my thoughts. My surprised look seemed to amuse him, so I saw that smile again. "I'm pleased to meet you...?"

"Umm.. *cough* Frank. Frank Richardson", I managed.

"Frank Richardson. Guy Bennett."

He laid his hand on my shoulder and continued, "Let me know whenever you need help."

And he carted his cart off into the distance.


	2. Things Develop

It was more than two weeks before we really interacted again. Naturally I saw him around the library, as he seemed to be scheduled whenever I was there. Admittedly, this wasn't unlikely: I was there virtually every night. Before or since I have never ignored the social scene as much as I did while wading knee-deep in philosophical texts and tomes. I discovered at this time from a girl who also worked there (Sally, I eventually learned) that Guy Bennett had graduated a couple of years ago and ended up just continuing his student job in a professional capacity. Whatever!, I thought. Or wanted to think. Truth be told, other than philosophy this guy was the only thing really on my mind outside of class.

And he wasn't even on my mind in a sexual way, not during those first couple of weeks at any rate. I was further confounded by this creeping obsession whenever I was mindful of the fact that we'd only spoken once, and then only to exchange a half-a-dozen pleasantries. I guess it was "that time of life", or more likely because I didn't know anyone else quite like him. Clean-cut guy, deep baritone, slim, and a librarian. With a cart. That accessory is also to blame. The night after we first met, when I returned to the library after my classes and other homework (which, you may be relieved to hear, did not take up much of my time or processing power), I started tallying the number of carts I passed by en route to my out-of-the-way study desk. During those first two weeks, I saw a total of five unattended carts, and three being zipped around by non-Guy staff. (Sally chaperoned two of those three; the third one was being moved--in the loosest sense of the word--by the wizened old woman who looked like she'd needed it to stay upright.) But I'd see him, he'd make a polite nod in my direction, then he'd appear with a cart, disappear, and... Never mind. This isn't about carts.

That evening, two weeks after I had first arrived here, he came by without a cart. (Sorry.)

"Good evening, Frank. How's the project?"

This was an innocent enough question, but being posed an hour or so into my evening's ordeal tweaked me in a way I can't explain, and am not proud of.

"Fucking. It's going fucking fucking."

His shift in mood was subtle, but somehow all the more obvious for it. His inquisitive smile turned immediately into a concerned frown, and in addition to a sudden stooping of his shoulders, he took an ever-so-slight step back away from me.

"Goodness", he managed, before putting his hands in his pockets. It had seemed he was going to continue into some other general remark but I saw the fingers of his right hand shift a little in his pocket that may as well have been a switch for a bulb in his brain. He withdrew a packet of cigarettes and continued, "Care to take a break? I was just about to take mine."

And he said it perfectly. I found myself a little too pleased with his intonation, something lifted from years ago or just honed from years of casual conversation. (I couldn't guess then what those casual conversations might be about, what he generally liked to chat, but I thought at that moment it was probably wry, dry, and obliging.) And having heard him say that so perfectly, I thought to myself, "You know, it's never too late to start smoking."

I managed a tired, but relieved, glance in his direction, a glance back at my desk, and sighed myself up out of my chair and extracted myself from my paper-strewn prison. I stretched, he beckoned, and when I took a step into the corridor, he put his left hand on my shoulder (I think he gave it a squeeze), and gestured with his right, a cigarette raised out of the pack pointing the way.

Staring more or less at the floor the whole trip, I didn't see any of our route, but it seemed to have a lot of turns. He said nothing, but whistled a tuneless whistle that I've since found he always managed to summon when something should perhaps be said, but he couldn't think what. Eventually, we came upon a fire exit with a little control pad. He punched in some digits, pressed the handle bar, and quietly declared, "...and here we are."

* * *

Indeed we were. Stepping outside into the cool Autumn air felt really, really good. Having him standing so close, just behind me as he eased the door mostly closed, felt even better. Contemplating the small parking lot in front of me, I heard a skrtch from a lighter and turned. He had two cigarettes, unfiltered, in his mouth and was coolly lighting the ends. Taking a drag, he then handed one to me with a smile, and I took it with slight trepidation. I'd never smoked before, and had never seen anyone smoke anything without a filter (except, of course, the marijuana joints passed around at the parties I had to give up for this project). Summoning my courage and intending to act "cool" about it, I put it to my lips, and inhaled deeply.

"*cough* *cough* *cough*", I staggered, "Fuck! That's..."

"Invigorating?"

I shot him a glance while trying to calm my throat down. They tasted...toasted? Something. Once the initial shock wore off, I could taste a not-unpleasant "burn" flavour in my mouth. Stupidly... no, Boldly... I went for another puff. Still harsh. But calmer, tastier, more satisfying. His small smile had transformed into a good-nature smirk (never had seen one of those before), and he gave me a friendly pat on the back.

"So I see you've been working for a while. Think you can answer my earlier question now?"

There was genuine interest in his tone, and I was at a little bit of a loss for words--not to mention feeling somewhat light-headed from cigarette. Or maybe it was _because_ of the cigarette. Dunno. After some moments staring at flaky fire inches from my eyes, I managed a quiet, "S'all right", and an even quieter, "sorry for shouting."

His small smile returned, an upturn on the right-hand side of his lips, though his face face beamed. "Please, don't worry about it. In my years working here, I've heard far, far worse." He rotated on the ball of his foot slightly and proceeded to stare in the middle distance.

"Your 'years working here'? Dude, I know that you've only been here for a couple of years."

He half-frowned, but obviously didn't mean it. And he couldn't help his right-hand smile returning. "Sally been talking with you?"

I squinted hard at him with a stare that I hoped would drill past his façade and into his mind. How did he know? (At least now I could be sure the girl's name was Sally.)

"Yesss...", I began, "I certainly haven't had any conversations with that other cart-pusher."

"'Cart-pusher'?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Yeah, Sally told me you worked here as a student and stayed on after graduation two years ago."

He took a drag on his cigarette, relishing the pause he inflicted. While exhaling, he lowered his right hand to his side and I could see him gently working off the burning end, and continuing once it had fallen to the pavement, seemingly in an effort to coax out the tobacco strands. "I am, yes, old."

I gently thwacked his arm in response, and he turned to me with a full smile.

And I did something spontaneous.

And very out of character for me.

I leaned in, toward his smiling face, with my eyes closed. Not all the way. I was either being polite, or lacking nerve, or whatever, but I was very clear about my intentions, even if I can't say I was in control of my actions.

And he leaned in, too.


	3. What the Fuck?

It ended almost as soon as it started, and I'll talk about it more later. Right now, though, I need to work out what went down in the immediate aftermath. It was weird, for me at least, and more than a little... Wait, the aftermath. Here we go.

Almost immediately I took a half-step back, more to maintain my balance than anything. But, as I learned soon enough, Guy was one of those "hyper perceptive" types, and so he took a full step backwards, and then repositioned himself facing slightly away from me, and went to staring in that middle distance that had briefly fascinated him a few moments before. I wanted to say something, but only managed another cough and an "Agh!" as one of my fingers accidentally brushed against my still-burning cigarette.

He coughed in reply and twiddled his fingers by his sides before saying, "Well, excuse me. I see my break's through..." As he trailed off, he walked off, ignoring the door he had left slightly open and making a strideful bee-line around the side of the library. I was left behind, a little stunned, more than a little confused, and vaguely aware that I wasn't sure if I could find my way back to my study area without him.

Without him. That thought stuck nastily in my brain as I seemed to fast-forward all kinds of experiences I suddenly wanted, never having known them before. It was stupid (really stupid), and definitely premature. But his quick disappearance just now felt like a punch in the stomach and a knife to the heart. What the fuck was going on with me?

* * *

This isn't the first, by a long shot, or the last, by a long shot, of a description of a kiss, but it's _my_ first, describing my first with another Guy. I mean, guy. There was a soft collision, and considering how long it'd been since I'd kissed anyone, I'm guessing Guy was the one with the good aim. He's slightly taller than me, and through my mostly-closed eyes I observed the approach. His hair was flared up, as always. His angular cheeks were heightened by the shadow effects of the sodium light above the emergency exit we'd come out of. I suppose the only touch of apprehension I felt had to do with this moustache. Never having kissed a guy before, this was never an issue before (though with one girl it was close...). But I knew I was in, and just floored that he not only seemed into it, but was even covering most of the distance.

And there was that tingle--both on the lips and sparking around my mind. This had happened before, once, with Sylvia. That was some years ago, and had the benefit of being my first kiss _ever_. So no, this feeling with Guy wasn't "the best of all ever and ever", but it was still good, really good. And so brief. Half a second? One? A slight flexing of the lips against each other, and I could feel a trace of moisture from his lower lip. There was a taste of the cigarette, too, something I'd been told all my high school health class days was terrible. It wasn't. It seemed to add a maturity to the experience, like two adults abusing their bodies on their own terms in an out-of-fashion way. I was on the cusp of moving my tongue forward to just take a lick, a tiny lick, of his lips when I made that half-step to make the angle better. And it was ruined. Well, no, it was perfect. But it was cut far too short.

* * *

I dropped the cigarette, looked around vainly for something (I don't remember what I was hoping to see), and then heavily made my way to the door inside that was still lightly propped. I eased it open, eased myself through, and eased the thing shut behind me. I didn't care if the alarm was off and some arsonists could slip in later and torch the place. In fact, I practically relished that thought and for some fleeting seconds I managed a sinister smile through the gloom that had settled on my face. Not caring where I was going, I just shuffled forward, turning right at every opportunity like you do in the video games, except I was heading away from the exit and toward the beginning of what I knew was going to be a bitch of a night. I hate my brain sometimes. That mad spike of joy and exhilaration couldn't have been spread lightly over my night, no, of course it couldn't. Just half a moment a wonderfully confused joy to be followed not only by soul-numbing research, but guilt and worry. The half-hope of one of my philosophical tomes guiding me through this dark night was mercilessly beaten back by some part of my Id, which was in no mood to rationalise the experience or put it in a greater context.

Slowly things started looking more and more like the "civilian" section of the library, and a few minutes later I managed to find my little nook, covered in books that Guy had found for me and brought in his cart. Bracing myself for the task ahead, I took the liberty of allowing myself to hope that he'd inevitably swing around, or nearby, or somewhere in eye-shot, and I could say something, or something. Or something. Bleh. This may have been when I started truly hating this class.


	4. Regroup.

It came as no surprise that I didn't see him again that evening. I had not seriously been hoping for it, but I have a nasty tendency to latch on to hope no matter how tiny the sliver. (This affliction has plagued me all my days, beginning, I believe, when I was around eight years old and had smashed my hand through a pane of glass; the window did _not_ magically repair itself and the bleeding did _not_ stop without a trip to the hospital.) Mustering what focus I could, I hit the books. Metaphorically. I've never been one to hit things when I'm upset, but the thought crossed my mind. But, I still had some pride lurking around underneath the desperate confusion, and I didn't want to surrender my last sliver of self respect so nonchalantly. I'm almost surprised I cared, but this was another reaction of mine that was very deep-seated. It's one of the reasons I truly hate it when I'm angry or upset: I never lose it so badly as to become unaware that a corner can be turned, and so I can't even mope correctly, I just have to sit back in silent horror as my conscious mind smacks itself in the face observing the idiocy of my emotions. I had recently been avoiding situations that might cause this (à la romantic intrigue), in part because I'd recently been burned, and in part because I wanted all my acumen applied with laser-precision on this semester's course load. Next semester, heck, I had virtually nothing requiring brain power. I suppose all this couldn't have happened next semester, then, as I wouldn't have been in the library at all, but... but that's just my mind wandering.

I worked through until library closing time. I trudged home through dead leaves. I passed out alone, not having broken into tears. And then I woke up, and all I could think about was _it_. That half-second and the half-minute of follow-up. Totally awake, at--it must have been at the break of dawn--totally awake, and sad, and tingling with energy. But it was Fall, so it wasn't too early. I get thrown off something awful with little sleep, so through my grim haze of despair I decided I wouldn't couple that with being thrown off from lack of food. It was late enough, and so I willed myself out of bed, into some clothes, and into the outside world, heading toward the nearest (well, only) dining hall. Of all the strange things I felt that morning, the strangest was that I wanted a cigarette, really badly. Having had half of one in my entire life, somehow it was at the front of my mind. Guess all those warning labels are important after all.

The weather was kind, fortunately, with no vicious breeze and some warm sun. My eyes hurt, though, and I was heading East. Oh well. It took my mind off my self pity--and the prospect of a cigarette. God, if I'd been idiot enough to drink last night...

Anyway, to cut a short walk shorter, I arrived at the dining room in due course. Grabbing a tray, plate, fork, and mug, I surveyed my options. I don't think I'd ever been there that early in the day: it was actually not bad. The hot foods all steamed and looked particularly delicious. The beverage dispensers looked as though they'd been polished recently. And as my gaze traveled the length and breadth of the cafeteria, I felt calmed by the reassuring blandness of the vista. To the left: eggs; to the right: a waffle station; straight ahead: Guy.

...the fuck.

* * *

Before I continue, I need to address the elephant in the room. There's been quite a lot of happenstance here (well, at least a little), and I can hear you right now, thinking loudly, "Oh, _of course_ Frank will encounter Guy again the next morning. I mean, heaven forbid he stretch his story out a little...". To that I reply, "Shut up, this is _my_ story, not yours. And, shut up, this actually happened." Believe you me, I am cutting no corners with this. My life is full of countless details Not At All Worth Repeating, and I consider it a favour on my part for whoever is reading this nonsense that I don't dwell on my outfit, the sharpened angles the leaves' shadows cast on the ground as I walked to the dining hall, or that little bit before I got into the building when I nearly tripped over a passed-out freshman.

My life, like everyone else's, is just a series of coincidences, some of them wackier than others. I had cruised through normal for years before anything "paradigm-shifting" stumbled into my path. But, I was always open to change I thought I might enjoy. I wouldn't quite say that I made my own luck, but I kept an ear out for the knock on the opportunity door. (Bad analogy, but it's really early.) I think I had reached a point when my unconscious mind was shouting for a change of pace. Or my conscious mind wanted to distract itself with _anything_ other than the paper I was working on. Either way, I found myself with new feelings, desires, and standing rather dumb-founded in the center of the cafeteria.

* * *

So I saw him. And he saw me. And he saw that I'd seen him. And he blushed, just a shade, but it was a little obscured by his stubble (something I had never seen on him before). With the slightest tilt of his neck, he motioned in my direction and started to turn on his heel when I managed, "Wait!"

He did, and I approached him with my foodless tray. Less out of curiosity and more out of trying to avoid eye contact, I looked at the plate he was holding (he had no tray, smug so-and-so). Two eggs, two strips of bacon, two pieces of toast. At least I could see he had coffee in the mug he was holding; if he'd been carrying tea, I might have lost it. While he waited, he regarded me with unblinking trepidation, his head cocked ever so slightly. Sidling toward him, my mind raced furiously to think of something to say.

"Hey."

It was not Shakespeare.

"Good morning, Frank," he replied, his voice not much above a whisper, but also not sounding too weak. I kept staring at his plate and wondered, until my eyes trekked upwards, where his fork might be. But as soon as I wondered, I saw the tines sticking out from his shirt pocket, just to the right of a bright red knit-tie. This discovery, though edifying, did not help me think of something to say.

"Hey."

It was not my morning.

"About last night," he began, sounding on the cusp of apology. I'd never thought I'd hear that phrase outside of a television show, but at last my mind rallied and I managed, "Care to eat together?"

Somehow he deciphered my question through my hoarseness and mumbling. My offer hovered between us for one of this infinity moments; I think I started sweating even though it couldn't have been more than half a second before he replied, "I'd like that very much."


End file.
